Reproach
by ArkadyRose
Summary: From a prompt on LJ. Watson saves Holmes' life - and not for the first time.


Time had ceased to have any meaning long ago. He seemed to exist in an eternity of _now_ that stretched between one heartbeat and the next. It didn't seem to matter if his eyes were open or closed; the pictures and words on the walls and floor seemed to writhe and twist just the same. He could feel his heartbeat slowing, breathing becoming shallow as he sat there, fingers plucking at the strings; the violin felt alive, as though the wood were breathing beneath his touch, the strings trembling in sonorous sighs that whispered soothing coolness to ripple along his nerves. He blinked slowly and swayed as the floor seemed to float around him. The fur of the tigerskin rug seemed to ripple and twist between his fingers as though the beast were still alive.

With almost exaggerated carefulness he laid the Stradivarius down, and then he reached for the morocco case that lay open before him. He delicately picked up the syringe and began to fill it from the small glass bottle of clear liquid, but his hands seemed an impossibly long distance away and it was growing hard to concentrate. After the third try he gave up and simply lay back on the floor, soft brown eyes staring up at the ceiling without seeing it. He smiled dreamily in euphoria as his heart slowed further; he was floating on an ocean of dreams, and breathing seemed such a secondary concern compared to unravelling the strange patterns that danced and writhed behind his eyelids as they fluttered shut over his unfocussed gaze.

Fingers dug painfully into his biceps with a vicelike grip and abruptly he was hauled upright and shaken hard. His head snapped back and he drew air into his lungs with a loud gasp. His eyes flew open wide in shock and he cried out wordlessly. Someone was shouting his name; the sound was loud and painful to his ears. He tried to pull away, but he was being dragged up to his feet, the hands hard and mercilessly cruel as they clutched him in an iron embrace, still shaking him. The words slowly coalesced into meaningfulness as he blinked back into awareness.

"Holmes, you bloody idiot! What did you think you were doing? Mixing laudanum and absinthe - do you _want_ to die, you bloody fool?"

"Watson... don't shout, Watson..." he murmured, trying to focus his eyes on the angry face before him. His legs would not co-operate and he sagged in the doctor's arms, his eyes fluttering closed again.

A sharp slap across his cheek shocked him back into wakefulness as Watson thrust him away; Holmes stumbled wildly to fall upon his knees against the settee. He stared back at Watson, his eyes wide with surprise as the doctor advanced menacingly towards him. He held his hands out towards him placatingly.

"Watson, please, don't-"

The doctor dragged him up by the arms again and glared at him, his gaze hard and flinty. "Why must you persist in doing this to yourself? Do you enjoy courting death?" he ground out, voice low and harsh.

"It's not that I court- Watson, I don't- Please, I-" Holmes stammered, unnerved by the doctor's anger and demeanor. He cried out again as Watson spun him around suddenly and pushed him down hard over the arm of the settee. He struggled briefly, but the doctor pinned him down with one hand gripping hard on the back of his neck, forcing him back down with his throat pressed against the settee arm. The doctor pressed his body down over that of the slender man beneath him, pressing his face close to Holmes' ear, his moustache harsh and bristling against his cheek.

"Tell me, Holmes, can you feel your heart slowing? Its beat faltering perhaps?" he said quietly. Holmes closed his eyes and nodded as the doctor continued. "Feel how much harder it is to breath? Tell me, does your vision grow dark?" His voice dropped to a whisper. "You're dying, Holmes. How does it feel?"

"Don't, please- John, don't-"

"Don't what? What should I not do, Holmes?"

"Don't torture me like this, John!" he pleaded, gasping faintly. "Help me, _please!_"

"Help you?"

The doctor's voice softened. "Holmes, don't you realise that each time you do this to yourself, it is sheer torture to _me_?" He pulled back, releasing the pressure on Holmes' neck and then pulling the slender man into his arms in a gentle embrace. "Why do you do this to yourself? To us?" he said quietly. Holmes shook his head weakly, turning his head to hide his face against Watson's shirt; it smelled clean, fresh and crisp; it smelled of Watson himself. Watson sighed, and laid his hand gently upon Holmes' chest, over the heart which trembled and fluttered weakly like a captive bird within the cage of his ribs. "How much did you take this time?" he asked quietly. Holmes gestured briefly at the laudanum bottle with one languid white hand.

"All of it," he admitted. "What was left, anyway."

Watson sighed. "Oh, Holmes," he said sadly. Hooking his gladstone bag with one foot, he drew it over to himself, then leaned down and hefted it up onto the settee next to them both. He extracted a syringe and a small bottle; carefully he drew a measured dose up into the syringe. Obediently, Holmes rolled up his left sleeve and extended his arm. "What is it?" he asked, almost as an afterthought, as Watson gently slipped the needle into his vein then pressed home the dose.

"Atropine," replied Watson as he carefully removed the needle. "We need to stimulate your heart."

Holmes laughed weakly and gestured to the morocco case, lying abandoned upon the tigerskin rug. "Would not that have done as well, doctor?" he suggested. Watson snorted.

"Perhaps," he conceded, "but you are altogether too fond of your seven percent solution, Holmes." He sighed as he stared down at his pale companion, who shivered slightly as the drug began to take effect. Holmes rested his head back upon Watson's shoulder and closed his eyes, his breathing quickening slightly. Watson shook his head sadly and sighed again. "Why do you make me do this to you, Holmes?" he asked quietly, gently brushing Holmes' bruised cheek with his fingertips.

"I feel decidedly unwell, old boy," Holmes replied shakily. "Quite nauseous, in fact."

"Take deep breaths," Watson urged him. Holmes swallowed thickly and grimaced.

"In fact I fear I may be sick."

Watson pulled himself to his feet then pulled Holmes up after him, draping the shivering man's arm over his shoulder and supporting him with an arm around the waist. "Come on, old cock; into the bathroom with you! Come now, that's it; one foot after the other. Easy now..." He guided Holmes into the bathroom, where Holmes fell awkwardly to his knees, retching and gagging. Watson gently rubbed his back, making soothing noises. "Easy now. It's alright. You're going to be OK."

After a while Holmes sat back on his heels, wiping his mouth with the back of his trembling hand. Watson took a hand towel, rinsed it with cold water in the sink then rang it out before handing it to Holmes, who took it gratefully and rubbed it over his face and neck.

"You look a sight," observed Watson as he helped Holmes to his feet; Holmes regarded himself ruefully in the mirror. His face was waxy and pale, eyes darkly hollow and hair in wild disarray; sweat beaded his brow. He fingered the bruise on his cheek.

"You hit me," he observed.

"You weren't breathing," replied Watson.

"Oh."

"I'm sorry."

"So am I."

They stared at each other's reflection in the mirror,and neither spoke for a long while. Then Holmes turned away, shoulders hunched, as he stumbled back into his room. Watson sighed, then bent down to pick up the discarded towel. Dropping it into the laundry hamper, he shook his head sadly then followed Holmes.

This wasn't the first time.

And he knew it wouldn't be the last.


End file.
